


Anamnesis

by PanthaPrincess



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Accidental Incest, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Drug Use, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Gaslighting, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Incest, M/M, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Morty is 18, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-06
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2019-01-29 10:10:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12628713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PanthaPrincess/pseuds/PanthaPrincess
Summary: Anamnesis - noun - an·am·ne·sisA recalling to mind; Recollection, especially of a supposed previous existence.---Since he was in his mid-teens Morty has felt like there was something missing, a gaping hole in his life that he has never been able to fill. Now 18, he's been given the opportunity to study aboard. New continent, new friends, new life, he's even found himself a new name. But when his roommate's old, eccentric astrophysics professor catches his eye, he finally feels... Complete.---When Rick returned from prison he made a decision. One that would keep his family – and himself – safe; He wiped their memories, before turning the eraser on himself. The only thing that remained from his old life was a note he'd left for himself: 'Stay Away From Morty Smith', whoever the hell that was. But not all memories stay lost forever, sometimes they want to be found...





	1. You Must Be Somewhere In London, You Must Be Loving Your Life In The Rain

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! So this is my first time writing a Rick/Morty fic so I'm a bit nervous! This chapter is kind of a feeler, see if people are interested in reading it. I'm super excited about it so I hope you guys like it too! Updates might be slow as I'm writing other fics at the same time, but they will be fairly regular... Hopefully.
> 
> Any feedback you might have would be tremendously helpful :) Hope you enjoy it, let me know what you think!
> 
> Thank you to my friend [Malib000](https://archiveofourown.org/users/malib000) for beta-ing this chapter :)
> 
> Chapter Title From [England by The National](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6gmLmhuBaoo)
> 
> P.s Every chapter will have an accompanying song (it's my gimmick :P) obviously you don't have to listen but the music often inspires me when I'm writing the chapter and it helps to set the mood, like a film!

Morty linked his fingers over his head and pulled his shoulders up into a hard stretch, groaning in satisfaction as he heard them click and pop. He slumped down further on a couch and let them flop to his sides while he stared sullenly at the blinking cursor on his laptop screen, mocking him with its incessant flickering. All he'd managed to write in the last two hours was the title question: 'The role of a lost language in Beowulf and its impact on the modern reader'. He sighed and threw the laptop onto the cushion next to him then wandered over to stare out of the window overlooking the student accommodation courtyard.

It looked bleak outside, rain had been falling none stop for the past three days. He thought everyone had been joking when they said it rained all the time in England. All he'd heard was 'Why do you want to study there? The weather is shit, the food is shit, the people are rude, and they have bad teeth!' or words to that effect, constantly in the months leading up to his big move and subsequent first year of studying English at University College London. But in the eight months, since he'd arrived there last August, he'd only ever experience one of those things; the weather truly was shit. In Morty's mind, however, it was a small price to pay for a shot at a better life.

The opportunity had come like a dove after a storm, reaching out its olive branch for him to grab onto and fly far away for the mediocre, middle-class, suburban hell that had been his life so far in America. When he thought of home he was always reminded of that song, 'Little boxes on a hillside, little boxes made of ticky-tacky, little boxes on a hillside, little boxes all the same'. He didn't want a life like that. Grow up, get a job, get married, churn out a couple of kids and train them to run on the mouse wheel just like him. He'd always felt he could do more than that, that he was meant to explore the possibilities most people let slip by.

That's why when Mr Remington, his high school English teacher, had told him about a programme that paid for bright young Americans to study in Europe, he had worked his ass off to get the grades he needed to break the cycle of conforming to the rat race. And now here he was, standing in a grubby student apartment, staring at the rain, and avoiding his school work.

He heard voices out in the corridor, then the door to the self-contained unit open and shut with a slam. One of his flatmates must be home. He heard shuffling and more slamming before the door to their little kitchen/living room was thrown open to reveal the perpetrator of all the noise.

Nick Taylor was a tall, lanky, string bean of a boy, at least a foot taller than Morty. His sleeves would always ride too short and the skinniest of jeans would always be baggy on him. Morty had taken an instant liking to him despite not being about to understand a word he said in his thick accent, which he'd later been informed was from Lancashire. He gave Morty a huge grin from under his long floppy fringe, squashed flat against his forehead by his ever-present beanie.

“Alright, Sammy!” He called, stepping forward and launching himself onto the couch with a groan. “Stick t' kettle on would you, Lad?”  
Morty grinned and shook his head. The name 'Morty' had lasted for all of about five minutes when he'd introduced himself to his new apartment buddy. Nick had instead chosen to call him by the inspired nickname 'Uncle Sam', and it had stuck. So well in fact that even his tutors called him Sam, and Morty didn't mind one bit.

When his mother had gotten over her disbelief that her son had actually been accepted into one of the top universities in the UK, she had forcefully imparted the advice to take it as an opportunity to reinvent himself. Morty's heart had clenched at her hopeful yet mournful expression when she begged him to make the most of it, to do the things she was never able to do as a teen mom. So he'd taken her advice and 'Sam' he had become.

He strode over the kitchenette and flicked on the perpetually full kettle and loaded up a mug with a teabag and two sugars.

“H-how was class?” He asked, glancing over to where Nick was draped lethargically over the cushions. He perked up immediately.  
“Oh, mate, it was fucking brilliant! We just started 'Physics of the Universe' last week and we're getting to the proper good shit now, like black holes and stuff. The stuff they tempt you in with when you apply then hit you with six months of mathematics,” he grumbled.

Morty came over and handed him the cup which he gladly accepted.  
“Not having one for yourself?” He asked nodding to Morty's empty hands.  
“There's o-only so much tea I can drink, Nick,” he laughed moving his laptop to sit down next to him. The boy looked at him as if he'd just taken a shit on the floor.  
“Christ, you really are American aren't you,” he gave him a disgusted look which immediately gave way to his warm smile and infectious laugh. That was what Morty loved about him, he always had a smile for every situation, which had been great on the nights when the young American grew homesick.  
“Have you only just worked that out? I-I'm surprised they even let you on the Astrophysics course!” Morty chuckled. Nick gave him a light kick in the side before laying his skinny legs over Morty's lap.  
“Ooo, that reminds me. Right, my new professor, the guy taking us for this part of the course, he's a Yank too! Bloke's a fucking headcase, seriously, but he's brilliant, like seriously brilliant.” He jumped up from the sofa, somehow managing to not cover them both in tea, and rushed out of the room, returning moment's later with a wad of paper's in his hand. “'Ere, look at that lot.”  
He thrust the papers at Morty.

Leafing through what he had initially thought were photographs, Morty quickly realised that they were, in fact, exquisite drawings of Space. Each one seemed to be more intricate than the last, depicting swirling nebulas, planetary systems, lunar surfaces, and solar cycles. He didn't really know why, perhaps because of the sheer beauty of the work, but looking at the pictures made Morty feel quite emotional. It awakened something inside him, the need to explore, a call of adventure, and, most inexplicably, an overwhelming sense of loss. Since he'd been in his mid-teens he had felt like there was something missing in his life, a hole which he had tried to fill by reading fantasy books and writing short stories about being whisked away by a mysterious stranger to a life of high adventure and thrilling peril. Looking at these images gave him that same feeling.

“You alright, Lad? Look a little spaced out there, pardon the pun,” Nick chortled, breaking Morty out of his daydream.  
“Hmm? Y-y-yeah, I-I'm- Did he draw these?” He asked, shaking his head a little to jog himself back to the present.  
“Who Professor Sanchez? Yeah, dude's an absolute genius, mental like, but insanely intelligent. You should see the way he talks to us, like we're the thickest people he's ever met. I think he might be drunk most of the time, surprised no one's complained. Or maybe they have and the university refused to let him go because he's so brilliant.”  
Morty had gone back to staring at the pictures again, barely listening to his flatmate, mind racing to fill in the blanks of all the interstellar adventures that could be had in these wonderful, far off places.  
“I love space,” Morty mumbled, almost to himself. “I-it's so fascinating. I used to spend hours staring up at the night sky when I was younger, I don't know what I was hoping to see, but I always felt like I couldn't look away in case I missed something.” He looked up to see Nick smiling down at him.  
“You can keep them,” he said pointing at the pictures. “They're just photocopies, I can get more. And hey, why don't you come along to my lecture tomorrow!” A broad grin spread across his face.  
“Oh, I dunno, I-I-I- don't you think your professor would get mad?” Morty said nervously, ringing his hands, he'd hate to get Nick into trouble.  
“Nah, he doesn't care who's in the room as long as they're listening to him, he does _not_ like it when you don't pay attention to him. Besides there's like 160 people in the there, one more won't hurt.” He nodded and smiled encouragingly down at the smaller boy.  
“Erm... Ok then!” He said, deciding to live by his mother's words and grab life by the balls.  
“Awesome!” Nick yelled, sitting back down on the couch again and throwing a friendly arm around his pal's shoulder.  
“Aaaaand it's Friday tomorrow, so we can go straight to the union bar after and get shitfaced!” He shook Morty lightly to emphasise how exciting the prospect was.

Morty's heart sank. “Oh. I-I'm meant to be seeing Rupert on Friday night. For the whole weekend actually,” he said awkwardly. He knew how Nick felt about his on-again-off-again sort of boyfriend.  
True to form he made an exasperated noise. “Oh for God's sake, you're not honestly back with that nasty old queen are you?”  
“Hey! Don't call him that,” Morty snapped. He shouldn't be defending him, Nick was right, he was nasty, but it felt like an attack on him, on his poor sense of judgement.  
“Sorry!” Nick held his hand up in apology but didn't look all that contrite “Look, you know my opinion on the guy-”  
“Yes-”  
“He's a manipulative, slimy, smug ponce, and I think you can do so much better, but who am I to judge?” He leant away from Morty a little so he could see him clearly, but kept his arm wrapped tight around his shoulder. “I just don't want you getting hurt. Again.”

Morty turned his face into his friends' collarbone and sighed heavily. “I know. I just- he makes me feel- I don't know. Maybe it's the older guy thing, he makes me feel... safe. Kind of.”  
“A ringing endorsement if ever I heard one,” Nick laugh. “Well, you're not seeing him tonight are you?” Morty shook his head. “Then let's rescheduled! Tequila shots for Uncle Sam? Yes? Yes.”  
Morty laughed threw his arms around his lanky companion, gripping him tightly in his embrace. “Thank you,” he mumbled, unable to express just how much the guy meant to him.  
“Alright, you soppy mare. Go get your gladrags on, you can be my wingman.”  
“Deal” Morty grinned.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


It was around 9:30 pm and Rick was watching the raindrops run down his office window, stained orange by the floodlights illuminating the terrace below. God, he hated this country. All it ever did was fucking rain. Maybe when he moved on next time he'd go somewhere warm, maybe Spain? Or one of the baked moons of Zeta-Flublich? He'd only really intended to stay here a few months, but he'd grow complacent, charmed by the polite, 'mind your own business' nature of the place. That and the cushy job. He'd never say he enjoyed teaching, far from it actually, most of the time it was a pain in the ass, but there was something about standing in a room with hundreds of people hanging on your every word that appealed to his ego.

A soft, lilting voice from behind startled him from his musings.  
“Oi, Dickhead, we gonna finished this or not?”  
He spun his chair around in surprise.  
“I-I-I didn't even know you were still here! Jesus, woman, go home,” he urged.  
“There's only three more papers to mark though!” She insisted.  
“Don't care, get out,” he dismissed, pointing towards the door. She shook her head and smiled.

Angharad Jones was the best TA he'd had in the two years he'd been at the university. He'd gone through nine in his first year alone, all of them sighting his mood, behaviour, or drinking as the cause for their resignation, but Angharad had stuck around. Rick certainly wasn't complaining, she had a great work ethic – due to her hard-working Welsh parents, not that Rick gave a shit about that – she was smart, she was determined, and pretty easy on the eye to boot. Long, slender legs that went all the way up, cascading waves of strawberry blonde hair, bright green eyes, and a little, freckled nose. He had genuinely considered trying his luck with her but had cottoned on fairly quickly to the fact that he had completely the wrong set of genitalia for her liking.

And so they had begun a friendly rivalry of who could get the most pussy, they'd even put a chart up in the office. Pleasingly they were almost neck and neck, with Angharad just in front, but Rick insisted that was because he liked to play the field a little, gender-wise, and if guys were allowed on the chart he would totally be winning.

His young TA looked at him sleepily from across the desk.  
“Are you sure it's ok if I go?” She asked, quirking the side of her mouth downward, looking unsure.  
“Yes! Fuck off, y-y-you're annoying me,” he grumbled, but she would know he didn't mean it.  
“Thanks, Rick,” she said with a wink, “See you tomorrow. You've got those first years again.”  
Rick groaned and bumped his head into the desk, “Fucking Yay.”  
He heard her laugh echo down the corridor as she retreated.

Rick sighed out into the quiet loneliness of his office, there was no point him being here now, he may as well go and be miserable in his own home. He scooped a random assortment of papers into his shoulder bag then left the office and set out into the rain, pulling the collar of his lab coat up against the stiff breeze. He kept his head down on the short walk to Euston station, narrowly avoiding being swallowed up by a group of noisy students heading to the union. He then joined the ongoing championship of the 'no eye contact' game on the tube as they trundled up the Nothern Line, before jumping out at Kentish Town. Ten more minutes and he was fumbling his house key in cold hands, finally managing to break into the hallway and trip over the pile of unread mail.

He shed his wet clothes as he travelled through the house; kicking off his shoes at the door, lab coat in the kitchen where he stopped by to snag a bottle of vodka, sweater at the bottom of the stairs, vest on the landing, and finally trousers at the entrance to his bedroom. He snatched his robe off the back of the door then processed to the end of the corridor and opened a tiny hatch in the wall that revealed a narrow staircase leading to the attic. The quirky little townhouse had been a great find, not that he gave a flying fuck about the history of the architecture, but it had lots of little nooks and crannies to hide various less than legal items.

He sat down heavily in his comfy desk chair and surveyed the collage of his ceiling. Layer upon layer of drawings, graphs, schematics, and charts littered every available space with a spider's web of twine linking this and that. He rolled himself over to the far side of the room to where a picture of the planet Neufling-Delta-7 was pinned, one of his favourite places in all of the universe. Lifting the paper like a flap he relieved a hastily scribbled note, from himself to himself. 'You have no family, avoid the multiverse, and STAY AWAY FROM MORTY SMITH!'. He rested his elbows on the arms of the chair and laced his fingers under his chin so he could rest his head there, and studied the note.

He indulged in this ritual every now and then; coming home late, locking himself in his attic study and analysing the note. Sometimes for a few minutes, sometimes a few hours, but like a dog with a bone he couldn't help but chew on it. Whoever Morty Smith was, he must have been very significant to warrant this much safeguarding. Or maybe he was the one being protected, in which case Morty was a highly dangerous individual. He knew that rather large chunks of his memory had been erased, he was a genius after all, but even though it bugged him, he trusted his past-self enough not to go digging. It would probably only take him a matter of hours to find out all he needed to know, but he didn't allow himself to travel down that path. Just keep doing what you're doing, Sanchez, don't play with fire.

He unscrewed the cap off the bottle between his knees and took a couple of health gulps, eyes still fixed on the spidery writing. He knew he'd had a family at one time, he'd left his wife Diane years ago, along with his daughter Beth. He assumed they were dead or as good as, having cut him out of their lives. He also knew he'd been in prison, although why he would allow himself to get captured was a mystery to him. That was the last altered memory he had, escaping prison, after that, it was clear as a bell. He'd woken up in an alien motel with the note on his chest and a throbbing headache.

That was four years ago and he'd been hopping around the galaxy ever since, sticking to his own dimension though, like the note had insisted. He assumed whatever he'd made himself forget was still occurring in other dimensions, he wouldn't want to find out something his past-self told him he shouldn't.

He scrubbed his hand over his face and flicked the picture of Neufling-Delta-7 back down to hide the ever-nagging mystery. For some reason it made his heart ache to look at it for too long, the gaping holes in his mind gnawing at his subconscious like an itch that can't be scratched. He wasn't sure if the abject loneliness he felt was because of what he'd forgotten or if he'd always been like that, but he had a sneaking suspicion that what was missing involved a lot of happiness.

With a few more hearty swigs of vodka, he focused his mind back to his ongoing experiment into the properties of carnivorous nano-molecules, trying his best to forget about the bunch of incompetent, half-witted first years he'd have to teach tomorrow. At least they were the easiest to amaze, with their big wide eyes and their eagerness to be the one that was the most astounded by his genius. “Pathetic” he scoffed to himself. He put on his goggle and started poking at his Petri dish.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


If anyone is unfamiliar with the name Angharad it's pronounced Anne-Harrod. It's Welsh and means 'much-loved one' :)


	2. My Love It Kills Me Slowly, Slowly I Could Die

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who read and left support on Chapter 1, it honestly means the world to me! 
> 
> Let me know what you thought of Chapter 2!
> 
> Big thanks to [Malib000](https://archiveofourown.org/users/malib000) for beta-ing this for me, she is my rock!
> 
> Chapter Title From [Silk by Wolf Alice](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wTsN7uugtfg)

The droning of Morty's Friday morning lecture was more like white noise than intellectual enrichment. He'd tune in for a few minutes to jot down a couple of notes that seemed important, but then he'd go back to doodling various little sci-fi motifs around the edges of his page. 

To say he was excited for Professor Sanchez's class was an understatement. It was to be a little treat before a whole weekend with his capricious boyfriend. He willed the clock to turn fast so he could be released from the nightmare of Seamus Heaney's translation of Beowulf and throw himself into the world of supernovas, wormholes, and ripples in space-time. Nick had promised to meet him on the quad so they could walk to the class together, he just wasn't brave enough to just walk into a lecture he wasn't even supposed to be in by himself. 

“Remember I need your essays in on Monday, technical issues are not an excuse so don't even bother emailing me at 4 am about corrupted flash drives,” his tutor shouted over the cascade of noise rumbling down the lecture hall as 90 odd people scrambled for the door. Morty shook himself, he hadn't even realised the class had finished. Hastily he shoved his books into his bag and edged along the row, nearly tripping over himself in his eagerness to get out and find his friend. 

By the time he reached the Quad, Nick was already there, standing head and shoulders above the swarming students around him. He gave Morty a frantic wave and beckoned him over. 

“Alright, Sammy!” He called when Morty got closer, slinging an arm over his shoulders and guiding him through the crowd.   
“Hey! I'm so excited for this lecture!” The smaller boy squeaked, practically jumping up and down.   
Nick chuckled above him. “Jesus, anyone would think physics _wasn't_ just a bunch of old men sat in labs doing maths.”  
“Well, I'm here for the space stuff, I-I-I'll zone out during the math bits,” Morty smiled as they entered the physics building and turned a few corners until they happened upon an open lecture theatre door.   
“'Ere we are!” Nick shoved him through the door, following close behind and guiding him down one of the back rows to what Morty assumed was his usual spot.   
“Alright, guys,” he said to the people in the three seats surrounding them, “This is Sam, he's having a little taster day with us,” Nick winked down at him, “Sammy this is Pete, Francesca, and Fatima.” The four of them all chorused 'hi' and Morty nervously took his seat next Francesca. He always struggled meeting new people even though he enjoyed getting to know them, he'd rather just fade into the background and emerge only when it was strictly necessary. Being introduced to even a small group like this made his skin crawl. Luckily though, Francesca was more interested in talking to the two behind to pay any attention to him. 

Morty stole a quick glance at her. Her mousy brown hair was pulled off her angular face into a messy bun, showing off her perfect skin and big doe eyes. If Morty hadn't been tied up in this thing with Rupert he would have probably fantasied about asking her out. Girls always made him nervous, he found guys much easier to approach. It irritated him that he was too busy 'belonging' to someone - who almost certainly didn't give a shit about him - to allow himself to be interested in other people.  
“Head's up, here comes the silver fox,” Pete, a well-built guy with thick rimmed glasses, said behind him, and Morty saw him nudge Fatima in the side, causing them both to giggle.   
“You two are so weird,” Nick laughed, turning to face the front in preparation for the start of the lecture.   
Morty did the same, expecting to see some old, doddery little man in a tweed jacket, small round specs on his nose like an anthropomorphised mole, but instead, he saw someone quite, quite different. 

Professor Sanchez strode across the room with such purpose Morty felt immediately underprepared, despite the fact he wasn't even taking the class. The man was tall and slim but had a powerful grace about him that suggested he wasn't skin and bone but rather lean, toned muscle stretched over a narrow frame. He was old, yes, maybe in his early 60s, perhaps older and just looked good for his age. Morty flushed a little as though the man at the front could read his thoughts. He really did look good, high cheekbones and an almost sultry look in his eyes, all topped off with wild, tousled blue-grey hair. He struck an impressive figure, formidable almost in his long sweeping lab coat as he stood talking to his red-headed TA. Morty gulped, the guy was simply mesmerising and he'd only been in the room 30 seconds. 

Apparently, everyone else felt the same way as a gradual hush fell over the room as they all realised they were in his presence. Morty watched as the professor glanced sideways out at the quietening class and smirked as if he knew full well the power he held over these individuals. After a few more minutes of quiet discussion the TA left the room and Sanchez turned his full attention to his waiting audience. His smirk returned as he looked at them all, saying nothing, just watching. Morty fidgeted in his seat as he saw the keen eyes scan over the students, both wishing he'd look at him and praying that he wouldn't. 

“Glad to see you all managed to-to find the room again, i-it's a start at least.” There was a smattering of polite laughter but Morty suspected the teacher was genuinely under the impression some of them might struggle. 

“Ok, so if any of you can remember anything beyond your last jack off session you will recall yesterday w-we were discussing the possibility of matter escaping a black hole. Some very convincing arguments for 'impossible' in the room,” he nodded, rocking back and forth on his heels, “If, of course, y-y-you're a complete imbecile.” 

Morty looked around at his fellow students to see a few of them looking a little miffed, they must have been the ones brave enough to raise their hands and put forth an argument. His eyes fell back onto the enigmatic professor who had begun pacing before the front row.   
“I'm here to tell you, because y-y-you're all too dense to work it out for yourselves, that it is completely possible for matter to escape the gravity of a black hole, complex matter at that. I know this, because I've done it myself,” he paused for what seemed like dramatic effect, waiting for them all to be impressed. 

“Yeah, sure you have...” A voice muttered a few rows down from where Morty and his new acquaintances sat. It was so quiet he himself had barely heard it, but Sanchez's head snapped to the source of the quip and pinpointed the individual in a split second. It was fucking creepy, like an owl hunting in complete darkness, ready to strike an unsuspecting rodent. The vermin, in this case, was a scrawny looking boy with a thatch of blond hair stuck oddly on top of his head.   
“Oh shit,” Nick muttered, shuffling down further in his seat as though he was trying to become the lest conspicuous person in the room.   
“Wh-what? What is it?” Morty whispered back but was silenced by Nick's frantically flapping hand. The hand pointed back towards the front where the professor had cocked his head to the side, watching the blond kid squirm uncomfortably.   
“Come here,” he demanded in a calm voice like sumptuous poison. 

The whole auditorium watched at the boy clambered awkwardly over his peers to the gangway that ran up the centre of the raked seating. On unsteady legs he descended, head hanging low as if he were approaching the gallows. When he reached the floor Sanchez beckoned him closer with the curl of one long finger, looking amused as the shivering boy stepped forward.   
“What was that? I-I couldn't quite hear you all the way up there,” he asked, voice even and unaffected, a stark contrast to the embarrassing squeal the kid gave.  
“I-I-I-I said that I did- didn't think you had...” He whispered in a quivering voice, he looked like he was about to piss himself.   
Sanchez bent his head down, mouth close to his ear and began to mutter. Morty watched the range of emotions play out on the guys face as the professor spoke to him, it was both fascinating and terrifying. Eventually, the boy cracked, bursting into tears and running for the door. 

The old man turned his attention back to the room at large.   
“Anyone else fancy re-evaluating their decision to take this course?” There was a mumble of disagreement before he gave them a wide grin and shot them a couple of finger guns.   
“Right answer.” And with that, he bounded over to the huge chalkboard and began to regale them with tales of black hole space travel interspersed with smatterings of highly complex mathematics that went right over Morty's head. But it didn't matter, he'd gotten what he'd come for. Story after story of amazing far-fetched worlds that could only be accessed through wormholes, species of aliens which fed on the light that passed over event horizons, and all the scrapes and near misses the teacher had suffered on his travels. Morty assumed that these stories were made up to illustrate the equations being written in scrawling handwriting on the board, but it was clear the man had an amazing grasp and unrestrained love of the universe and all her foibles. 

It only took three hours for Morty to form a borderline obsession with the guy. The way he moved around the room arms flailing, the bizarre expressions he pulled as he spoke, the rich gravelly tone to his American accent, even the way he unabashedly drank from a flask every now and then. Morty was a sucker for a bad boy, and it seemed Professor Sanchez was as badass as they came. He sort of reminded him of the mysterious stranger he used to write about in his silly little stories, eccentric and enticing with a swanky kind of charisma that drew you in. But regardless Morty found him equal parts mesmerising and petrifying.

Unfortunately, unlike his English class, the lecture flew by, leaving Morty feeling bereft as Sanchez signed off.   
“Ok, fuckwads, I-I-I-I want 3000 words as to why you're all too backward to attempt anything as complex as quantum phase propulsion but you appreciate the genius of it and can successfully regurgitate the information when asked. By Monday.” There was a collective groan at the prospect of a ruined weekend. “Oh, what? Y-y-you little turds got better things to do?” He shook his head and began to gather up his things. 

Morty turned to Nick, eyes wide with excitement.   
“Oh my god. That was freaking amazing!” He said in a hushed voice, not wanting the strange man at the front to hear him gushing. “Do-do you think I'd be able to come again?”   
Nick laughed at his enthusiasm, “I don't see why not, it's just a couple of classes, not like you're doing the whole course.”  
Morty tried to rein in the excitement that was trying to burst its way out of him. He hadn't felt this joyful in years.   
“I don't know why you'd want to, the guys a wanker,” Francesca grumbled from his side.   
Fatima made a shocked noise from above them, flicking her long black hair over her shoulder.   
“I know why, 'cause he's hot, that's why,” she gave Morty an exaggerated wink.  
Morty blanched, was he really that obvious? “I-I-I-I d-don't I mean he-he's”  
Fatima laughed kindly, her soft round face expressing nothing but warmth. “I'm only kidding! Me and Pete fancy the pants off him though!” She whispered conspiratorially.   
“Too fucking right!” Pete cackled, his dramatic, slightly feminine voice ringing out around the room. Luckily Professor Sanchez had already left, and Morty was almost disappointed now he was gone, like the world had just got a little emptier. 

“Alright, calm down you two, we're not all hot for teacher. Besides, Morty's got a boyfriend, haven't you?” Nick raised an eyebrow at him, as though hoping he'd say no.   
Morty gasped and felt as though someone had poured cold water down his back. He'd got so wrapped up in enjoying the lecture and wanting to get to know these three new potential friends he'd forgotten to text Rupert to tell him he'd be late.   
“Oh shit,” he murmured, pulling his phone out of his pocket. Sure enough, there were six missed calls and nine text messages, the final one being, “Sam, where the fuck are you?!” He was pissed.   
“Oh fuck!” Morty turned to the group who were all looking at him in confusion. He blushed at the unwanted attention. “I-I-I have to go, I'm really sorry! My boy- someone's waiting for me.” 

He began to thrust his stuff back into his bag in a panic until Nick touched his arm.   
“I'm on the end of the phone if you need me, ok? Don't let him get to you,” he said in a worried tone. Morty bit his lip, he really didn't need Nick's kindness right now, he didn't want to start crying in front of these new people.   
“I know, thank you,” he mumbled, throwing his bag over his shoulder and running for the door. He was so fucked, Rupert was going to hit the ceiling, oh jeez, oh fuck. All he'd wanted was to spend a nice evening with him, he could be so sweet when he was in a good mood, but now it was all ruined. Morty blinked rapidly to try and reabsorb his tears so he could see where he was going, but as he rushed around the corner he felt his foot connect with some unseen object making him stumble. The tripping hazard turned out to be a rather large book. Huh, some must have dropped it. Just as he picked it up there was a loud clearing of the throat behind him and he spun around in shock to see Professor Sanchez looming over him. Morty gulped loudly, he hadn't even heard him approach. The man was like a spectre!

“That's mine,” he said gruffly, pointing at the book in Morty's hands. The boy was momentarily confused. It was like seeing a film star in real life, you knew they were a real person, but to see them so close was difficult to process. He could feel his blush blooming rapidly on his cheeks as Sanchez raised an eyebrow, looking at him like a bug under a microscope. He felt like a bug standing in front of this otherworldly being. Dumbly, Morty held the book out to the teacher and who snatched it out of his hands and turned on his heel without so much as a nod of thanks. Oh. Well then. He may be hot, but Francesca was right, he was a bit of a 'wanker'. Morty shook his head, who was he kidding? If anything, that made him like him more.  
  


* * *

  
  
Morty sprinted at full tilt towards the train station and managed to launch himself onto a tube carriage just before the doors closed. Fives stops later he was scrambling up the escalator at Pimlico station two steps before spilling out into the street and galloping off towards Belgravia. 

By the time he got to Rupert's house 10 minutes later he was drenched in sweat from not just exertion but also fear. He rang the bell, breathing hard, running his fingers through his damp curls to try and make himself a little more presentable. The door was opened by a kind looking older woman who gave him a broad, maternal smile.   
“Hello Dear, what excellent timing, I've just finished for the evening. Mr Delaforte is in the lounge.” The housekeeper, Mrs Lohme, let him through the door and closed it behind her, heading out into the chilly evening before he even got the chance to open his mouth. 

Rupert Delaforte was, to put it simply, very, very rich. A man in his late forties, he'd made his fortune mainly through investing his sizable inheritance in theatre projects on the Westend, then avoided taxes like the plague. Morty had met him on a night when he was, as he put it, 'slumming it'; trawling trashy, down market bars with his upper crust friends to find a bit of easy skirt, or in Rupert's case, a nice tight ass he could use for the night. Morty, however, had captured his attention and he'd decided to keep him around, for better or for worse. 

At first, the boy had been flattered that this attractive older man had taken an interest in him. He was just his type too, angular features and a slim build with a slightly tanned complexion, towering over him just enough to make him feel small in his arms. Only two months into his time in the country and greener than grass, Morty had genuinely assumed the man had fallen in love with him. He was kind and gentle, protective and just dominant enough to come across as caring. He'd tipped head over heels for the guy. But about six weeks in, things had started to change. The protectiveness had become controlling, the domination all-consuming, and now Morty was in so deep be didn't know how to get out. They'd broken up a few times, but the younger man always let him back in, allowing him to infect his mind all over again. Morty knew this wasn't love, but what else could he do? This relationship went some way to satisfying that need to be with someone, it helped to make him feel less homesick, and most importantly it very nearly filled the gap in his heart he'd felt for so long. But not quite. 

Morty made his way through the massive house and tapped nervously on the lounge door before pushing it open and slipping inside. A fire was roaring in the grate, warming Morty's chilled bones and casting flicking shadows across the dimly lit room. Rupert was reclining in the love seat; one long, slender leg draped over the arm, closely tailored shirt showing off his toned chest as he leant back, the fingers of the hand holding up his head buried deep in tousled, mahogany hair. His dark eyes fixed on Morty as he sipped from a glass of no doubt incredibly expensive wine, glaring at him from across the room. 

“You look like shit,” he scoffed in his deep, aristocratic voice.   
“Oh jeez, I-I'm sorry,” Morty said, trying to smooth out his hair while shifting from foot to foot.   
“Where the _fuck_ have you been?” He asked in a voice so dangerous it made the bottom drop out of Morty's stomach.   
“I-I-I was at uni-”  
“No, your class finished hours ago, so I'll ask you again, where have you been?” He said, voice like silk around a razor blade.   
“I went to another lecture, a-a physics one, w-w-with Nick, I swear that's where I've been,” Morty was almost begging.   
Rupert let out a light mocking laugh. “Oh, Honey, we both know you're not clever enough to do science,” he sat up and put down his glass then opened his arm, beckoning him closer. “Come here, let me see you.”

Morty sagged in relief, maybe he'd get off lightly this time. He scurried over before Rupert changed his mine and crawled into his lap while the older man's arms circled around him.   
“I missed you, Baby,” he said with a slight pout. Morty giggled, he loved him when he was like this.   
“I missed you too,” he replied, it wasn't a complete lie.   
“Look I've racked us up some lines, I wanted to celebrate us getting back together.” He pointed to the coffee table in front of them. The boy hadn't even seen the cocaine when he'd come over, too preoccupied with worrying about Rupert's mood. 

He scratched the back of his neck nervously. “Oh... I- Rup, I wasn't planning on getting wasted tonight, I have an essay due on Mond-”  
“Oh for fuck's sake, Sam!” He pushed Morty forcefully off him and into the tight space next to him on the love seat. “I wait all bloody week to spend time with you, invite you here for the weekend, offer to treat you to all your favourite things, and this is how you repay me? You might as well just go home if your fucking work is more important than me.” He snapped folding this arms like a petulant child.   
“No!” Morty squawked, reaching over and trying to pull the older man's face around to look at him. “I-I-I-I want to stay!”   
Rupert's face softened slightly and he turned to look at Morty through his long lashes.   
“So take a line then,” he cajoled.   
“I don't thin-”  
“Just do it, Sam, it's only one little line.” He sat up and pulled the table closer with one hand and rubbed up and down Morty's back with the other.   
“No, I don't want to,” he said more forcefully. That was a mistake. 

Rupert gripped the back of his neck and slammed his head forward, stopping just before his nose hit the table.   
“Snort the fucking line Sam, don't be so ungrateful,” he said coldly. 

Morty's eyes were wide with shock, his shallow breathing puffing up little clouds of cocaine into his face. He reached out with a shaking hand for the rolled £20 note next to him and dutifully snorted one of the prepared lines. He squeezed his eyes shut against the burn and sat up, hoping Rupert would put the tears down to the stinging in his nose and nothing else. 

He felt a gentle hand under his chin which guided his face around. Pulling out a handkerchief, the man at his side began to dab at his nose, wiping away the excess dust and nasal drip with such tenderness it made Morty melt a little.   
“There you go, Baby, that wasn't so hard was it?” He leant forward and kissed the tip of his nose sweetly. “We're going to have fun this weekend, aren't we.” 

It wasn't a question, it was the demand of a hostage taker, and Morty felt like he was fighting for his life against his Stockholm Syndrome.  
  


* * *

  
  
Morty had honestly believed the weekend would never end. In the past, he'd felt like he was completely in control of the situation, that he could leave at any time. But now, now he felt like his sanity was slipping from his grasp. He hid it well from Nick and his other friends, but his flatmate was always suspicious, he'd picked up the piece of a break up more than once. Nick didn't know how much of a hold Rupert had over him though, didn't know how controlling he could be, and that Morty would lie back and let it happen. It made him feel sick to the stomach when he thought about just what he'd let him do. Every time he saw the older man he was left feeling like a shell of a person, and that sensation was getting harder and harder to shake off each time. 

Sitting on the train home, he thought back over the weekend. After initially thinking Rupert wouldn't be too mad about him being late, it became clear that the older man had organised a cruel and unusual punishment, not for leaving him hanging, that was just a condescension, but as penance for breaking up with him two weeks ago. They normally had quite a lot of sex when they were together but Sunday night had been unreal, and not in a good way. Over and over again Rupert had demanded intercourse, all night, until the early hours. He must have been taking something because it was difficult for the 18-year-old to keep up, let alone a 40 odd-year-old man. Earlier in the evening, Morty had indulged him, participating and even enjoying himself, but as Sunday night turned into Monday morning, he had begged him to stop. But, as always, Rupert convinced him otherwise and had merely pinned him down and taken what he wanted. In total Morty had probably had no more than around 4 hours sleep the whole weekend, and now he was exhausted. 

That had obviously been Rupert's plan, make it so he was too tired to go to uni, too tired to do his work. That had been the younger man's excuse for breaking off their relationship, he wanted to focus on his school work. Boy, had that backfired. Tears welled up in Morty's eyes as the train thundered through the tunnel. He wanted to never go back, never see the fucked up psycho again, but what else did he have? His life would be so empty without him. 

He rubbed the blossoming bruises that collared his forearms from where he'd been held down. The perfect outline of strong fingers in a sickly shade of dark green. They'd be fun to explain away to Nick. When he alighted the train at Euston it was just a short walk to his student accommodation. He couldn't wait to just fall onto his bed and try to sleep off the ache that clung to every muscle in his body. Unfortunately, just as he was digging into his pockets for his keys the door opened for him and he looked up to see Nick in the doorway. 

“Alright, Sammy-Sam! How- Oh, Christ Lad, you look awful!” Morty hid his arms behind his back.   
“I'm fine!” Morty insisted in a hurry, he didn't want Nick to start grilling him about the weekend.   
“Oh, ok... Well, in that case, you're just in time to come to Sanchez's lecture,” the tall boy smiled down at him. Oh, if only Morty could tell him.   
“Erm, yeah, sure, l-let me just grab my hoodie.”

Morty walked around the flat like a zombie, picking up his favourite yellow, over-sized hoodie and a bottle of water before returning to the front to meet Nick. He couldn't say he didn't want to go after he'd been so excited after the last lecture, the other boy would wonder what was up, ask him what was wrong, and he truly couldn't deal with that right now. Panic and sleeplessness were creating a swirling tight knot in the pit of his stomach. He felt faint and dizzy, but he had to keep it together. Just get through today, have a nice long sleep, then figure out what to do about Rupert in the morning. Simple.

He gave Nick a big smile as he shut the front door behind himself, but it probably came out as more of a grimace.   
“Ready?” He asked the lanky Brit.   
“I'm waiting for _you_ , Dickhead,” he started to laugh, but paused when Morty didn't join in like he normally would. “You sure you're alright? Nothing happened with Rup-”  
“I'm fine!” Morty snapped, then regretted it immediately. So much for acting normal. “I-I-I'm fine, Nick, honestly, I just had a late night,” he said in a softer tone.   
“Ok, well, if you wanna talk, you know where I am,” Nick replied in a suspicious tone as the pair set off back down the stairs. 

It was only a five-minute walk to the main campus from their living quarters and very soon Morty found himself sat next to Fatima on the back row, with Nick, Pete, and Francesca in front. The moment Professor Sanchez walked into the room he felt the knot in his belly loosen slightly and excitement bubble up in his chest like fizzy lemonade, soothing the sadness in his heart. Despite him being kind of rude to him in the corridor the other day, Morty was still fascinated by the guy, and even though he'd had the weekend from hell, he had felt his mind wandering down paths that led to Sanchez in the moments that Rupert hadn't been toying with him like a cat with a mouse. 

“Alright, my-my little douche canoes, we all know Mondays fucking suck, but don't let that hinder your awe inspired looks of admiration, ok?” Sanchez drawled from where he was perched on the edge of his desk.   
Morty snorted with barely stifled laughed, causing a couple of people to turn and look at him. He'd entered into that drunk stage of sleeplessness where everything was funny but at the drop of a hat, he could burst into tears. Lucky for him though Sanchez had already started his lecture, his gruff, causal drawl floating up to him. It was comforting in a weird way, in this room Morty felt safe and secure, as though whatever happened the professor would protect them all, and Rupert seemed like a distant fading nightmare. 

Unfortunately, without the stress and anxiety to keep him alert Morty's eyes quickly began to slide closed. He was desperately trying to keep them open, propping his head up on his hand but it was no good, the warmth of the room coupled with the old man's relaxing tone had him drifting off about twenty minutes into the lecture. 

He was having one of those vivid dreams that often accompanied sleep deprivation. It involved his boyfriend, looming over him like a malevolent, shapeless entity and him running for his life towards a bright light that was talking to him in a mollifying voice. He was nearly there, the edge of the light was almost in touching distance with the evil force falling further and further behind when, suddenly, there was an explosion. At first, he thought it was in his dreamscape until he jolted awake and heard the tail end of a few screams. He looked around in confusion before he noticed pale pink smoke dissipating around the professor at the front. As the wisps of smoke cleared Morty realised he was staring right at him. No, surely not. He glanced behind, but of course, he was on the back row, there was no one behind him. He gulped as Sanchez pointed right at him, leaving no doubt that it was him he was looking at. 

“You. Sleeping Beauty.” The whole room turned to stare at Morty as he blushed puce with embarrassment. Oh fuck, oh fuck, he'd been rumbled. Caught sleeping and he wasn't even meant to be here! “See me at the end,” the teacher snapped, sharp grey eyes boring into his very soul. As though none of it had ever happened he turned back to the rest of the class and continued to regale them with more tales of the cosmos. 

Morty sat shaking in his seat. Could his life really get any worse at this point? His supposed lover had finally taken the leap from manipulator to full blown psychopath, the flatmate would probably never talk to him again for showing him up in class, and now the only little piece of respite he had, the perfect little sanctuary he'd only just discovered was going to be ripped away from him. Once again tears welled up in his eyes. He was surprised he still had enough water in his body to achieve it after the crying he'd done recently. 

As he stared fixedly at his lap a soft, dark-skinned hand slid into view and grasped his fingers tightly. He turned to see Fatima smiling at him.   
“It's ok, Sam, don't worry about it,” she whispered softly. He couldn't help but give her a watery smile in return. 

The rest of the class dragged. The enjoyment had gone out of it now he knew he was in trouble. The end and subsequent bollocking were rumbling towards him like a tornado, ready to sweep him away into a depressive oblivion. 

“Right, fuck off, I-I-I-I'm done with you now. Essays in a pile on the- on my desk as you pass.” Sanchez growled and Morty felt a whole new level of compassion for the boy that had gotten his ass verbally handed to him last Friday. Nick gave him a sympathetic look as he left the room, leaving him to wait in his seat until the last few stranglers were making their ways down the stairs. 

Approaching the desk behind which Professor Sanchez sat was like walking up to a tiger, captivating to see up close but you knew at a certain point you were going to get your face ripped off. The man had his head down, already scanning the first essay and scribbling all over it in a red inked pen. Morty could see at least four profanities on the first page alone.   
“Profess-” he began but was cut short by the raising of a large, spindly hand. A few more agonising minutes passed before Sanchez looked up at him. 

Morty had been too flustered the last time they'd been in such close proximity to take much notice of the finer details of the man. He looked a little older up close, fine lines around his mouth and across his forehead, dark circles under his eyes as though he'd had about as much sleep as Morty. But he was still undeniably attractive. It was kind of a weird thing to think, that a guy in his 60s was hot, but there was just something about it that made Morty's stomach turn over in the most delicious way. 

“Pleasant dreams?” He quipped.   
“I-I-I-I'm really sorry about that Sir-”  
“Eugh, do-don't call me that,” he said with a grimace.   
“Oh, erm, Professor?” Morty hedged. The teacher shrugged.  
“Well, I'm re-really sorry Professor, I didn't mean to fall asleep honestly,” he said in a small voice, fiddling with the baggy sleeves that covered his hands to his fingertips.   
“Y-you're American,” the older man stated, seeming to completely ignore his apology.   
“Yes?” Morty said, unsure of how that was relevant. Sanchez studied him closely, his keen eyes taking in his face and making the boy blush. God this was so embarrassing.   
“What's your name?” He demanded.  
“S-Sam, Sam Smith.” His new name was a reflex now.   
“Well, Sam, I-I-I'm no stickler for the rules, but I will not have someone falling asleep in my class. If you're not interested i-in what I'm saying then fuck off somewhere else.” He reached into the inside pocket of his lab coat and pulled out a silver flask, unscrewed the top and drank from it deeply before belching in Morty's direction. The sharp smell of whiskey hit his sore nostrils and made him wince slightly. Well, that confirms Nick's theory that he was drunk during lectures. 

He held out his hand, palm up and Morty could see callouses formed by hard work all over his long fingers. “Give me your essay, we'll look at it now.”   
His heart sank. There was no getting away with it now was there.  
“Erm... Well, you see Si- Pro-Professor, I-I-I'm not actually a Physics major. I'm an English major. I-I only came to this class to hear you speak, I-I love... space,” he finished lamely. 

Sanchez raised an eyebrow at him but his face remained almost purposefully blank.   
“So you come into this class without permission, then proceed to what? Assume you're too important t-t-to do the work? I don't give a shit what classes your paying for, you wanna scam the university be my guest. But if you wanna be in this class, y-y-you do the same work as the rest of these half-wits.”   
Morty could feel his panic rising again, anxiety closing it's ice cold fist around his lungs making it difficult to breathe.   
“I-I-I don't think I can, I'm not clever enough,” he said, his voice pitching up with the effort to stay calm. He didn't want to give this up, he couldn't!  
Sanchez tilted his head in another shrug. “Then you shouldn't be here.” And with that he returned his eyes to his marking, Morty having been silently dismissed. 

“No!” Morty yelled, then slapped his hand over his mouth in shock. Sanchez's head shot back up like a viper ready to strike. Had he seriously just shouted at this man? Someone who looked like he could tear you to shreds with just a look?  
“I-I-I mean I... I love this class, this is only the second one I've been to, and I know I'm not supposed to be here, but I love it. I love hearing you talk, th-that might sound creepy but it's true. You fascinate me, I- fuck I shouldn't have said that. I mean, you-you- this class makes me feel at home. When you talk it reminds me of being young, like when my Mom and Dad used to take us to Cold Stone Creamery and I used to get mint-choc-chip and now whenever I eat it, it reminds me of that time. You remind me of ice cream- No! You- You...” Tears he didn't even know were forming tumbled down his cheeks and he clasped his hand in front of his face and shook them in a begging motion so hard his sleeves fell down to his elbows. “I-I-I'll try and do the work if you want, but please, please don't make me leave, this is the happiest I've been in months.”

Morty studied the teachers face just as hard as he was studying his and watched as his frosty grey eyes flicked down to his forearms and widened almost imperceptibly. Morty was initially confused, but then it dawned on him that his now almost purple handprint bruises were on full display. He quickly lowered his arms, letting the long baggy sleeves fall back over them, but it was too late. To his surprise though, Sanchez had a slight smile tugging at the right side of his mouth. 

“Fuck I miss Cold Stone, Amaretto and Cinnamon with a scoop of Pecan Butter, Oooh yes!” He moaned in a startlingly sexual manner, eyes rolling back in his head, which made Morty blush so hard his tears nearly evaporated off his cheeks. He gave a slightly thick sounding laugh, unable to express how grateful he was the teacher didn't bring up the marks.   
“Right, fuck off kid, I-I-I'm busy. I want that essay by Friday, I-I don't care how shit it is just... try to keep up appearances.”  
Morty gasped in a breath to start gushing gratitude but was once again cut off by the professor.   
“Yeah, yeah, I'm so altruistic, just piss off before I change my mind,” he grumbled, turning his attention back to his paper. 

Morty squeaked out a thank you and fled from the room. All the angst of the weekend had been washed away by a simple kind gesture from someone who owed him nothing. For the first time in a while, Morty felt like he could hold his head up a little higher as he walked home. Fuck Rupert and his bullshit, Morty could do whatever he goddamn wanted, and he was going to. Starting with this.


	3. I Understand The Fascination, I've Even Been There Once Of Twice (Or More)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooooooooh Fuck..... Sorry about the wait guys... I hadn't even realised it's been over a month. You've probably already forgotten about this little fic! I've been suffering some serious writer's block, not that I didn't know what to write just lacked the ability to write it. But I'm back now! 
> 
> Let me know what you think! Your comments have been keeping me going and I appreciate each and every one. Also, you can come sin with me on Tumblr if you fancy @ [PanthaPrincess](https://panthaprincess.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Thank you once again to the living leg-end that is [Malib000](https://archiveofourown.org/users/malib000) for beta-ing and general moral/life support, 'you da best'.
> 
> Chapter Title From [Commercial For Levi by Placebo](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y9MEAKnApmg)

Rick tipped his head back and luxuriated in the gentle laving of a tongue against his jugular while he sipped his Black Russian amongst the neon purple haze of an 80s-themed cocktail bar. Normally nostalgia wasn't really his thing, but for Soho's _Hang The DJ_ he would make an exception. A little off the beaten track, it was an excellent place to come if he wanted to guarantee he wouldn't bump into any students. He didn't normally come out at the weekend for just that reason, but he felt he needed a little TLC after the week he's had.

He felt a sharp tug on the sensitive skin under his ear.   
“Hey, watch it, asshole! Don't leave a mark, I have class on Monday. I-I-I don't need sniggering from the front row,” he snapped at the man, well, the kid really, currently attached to his neck.   
The young man unlatched and looked up at him with big puppy-dog eyes.   
“Sorry, Baby, I'll be more careful,” he gushed in a husky voice.   
Rick gripped his chin and pulled him into a rough kiss, tasting the fruity, juvenile cocktail on his tongue. “You better be,” he breathed against his lips before pushing his head back down to continue his gentle suckling. 

He hadn't even known the guy twenty minutes ago, and when Rick had seen him staring from across the bar he'd had the sinking feeling he was one of his students, but thankfully he was only a first-time admirer. Who was Rick to say no to an attractive little twink making eyes at him? He gave a contented sigh, taking another gulp of his drink and letting his eyes roam around the room, maybe he could pick up another, he was in the mood to get a little frisky tonight, take his mind off the riddles that had been plaguing him since the eventful Monday lecture. 

His gaze settled on one of the bartenders, another wild young thing, flicking a cocktail shaker around in the air, flipping it behind his back and over this shoulder to entertain a group of middle-aged women letting their hair down on a Saturday. The guy winked at them as he poured out a garish, pink coloured drink into a glass, laying it on thick for the inevitable tips he was going to get. At least he was working for them, unlike the sour-faced bitch that had served Rick. Weekend staff were always a mixed bag, another reason why he only liked to go out on weekdays. 

He studied the boy closely as he moved fluidly around the other bar staff to the till, a tight black sweater showing off his slim, lightly muscled frame. He returned with the change and graciously accepted a generous tip for his efforts then retreated back away from the bar to lean against the counter to wait for his next patron. 

Rick hadn't been sure why his eyes were drawn to this individual in a bar full of people, but it all became clear once the kid felt like no one was watching him. His shoulders slumped forward slightly, his rictus 'customer service' grin faded from his face, and recognition dawned like a new day in Rick's mind as the confident young man morphed into an awkward looking teenager. 

The old man was on his feet before he even registered he was moving, having pushed his neck attachment backwards onto the bench seat, much to his displeasure. He drained his glass before slamming it down onto the bar in Sam Smith's line of sight. The boy reinflated his posture and started to strut over before he caught sight of Rick's face, managing to choke on his own breathe in shock. 

“Pro-Professor?” He managed to hack out between coughs.   
“Heeeeeeey!” Rick called jovially, then mentally slapped himself. It wouldn't do to get too friendly with the students, even if he was on the way to being pretty well soused.   
“Wh-what can I-I-I get you?” The boy stuttered. Rick shot him a lopsided grin and saw the boys cheeks heat a little. The first years were always far too easy to fluster, particularly this one- _No! Stop it Sanchez._   
“Wh-what do you recommend?” He half-shouted over the thumping beats of [New Order's Blue Monday](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KSGWsmR4ipM) that had just started up.   
“Raspberry Cosmo?” He shrugged.  
Rick pulled a disgusted face. “Do I-I-I look like I'm going through the menopause?” He demanded. The boy blushed again. “Get me- I'll have a Dirty Martini,” he said with a flick of his wrist, watching as Sam immediately jumped to it. Christ, the kid was edgy. 

Rick preferred to pay as little attention as possible to the individual natures of his students, they were all just a homogeneous mass that inspired not much other than irritation in him. Granted he had a few favourites that stood out, those with real potential, or a couple of the least vacuous ones who showed a little personality, but none of them had captured his imagination like Sam Smith. 

At first glance, Rick had assumed he was just as ordinary as the rest of them. An average boy with an average face and an average name. But on further inspection, he seemed to defy all expectation, and that was something which always intrigued Rick. Why would an English major want to sit through hour upon hour of complicated physics lectures? And more to the point, why did he find such solace in it? It was obvious from his meek demeanour and the angry looking bruises he'd seen on his arms that the kid had issues, but most people sort out counselling, not irate science professors. 

Was it because they were both American? He had said that Rick reminded him of home. The way the boy looked at him though, it said more than just 'homesick'. In the three other lectures he'd given to the first years that week, he'd found his eyes drifting upwards towards where the boy sat, as though pulled by magnets. When the pair caught eyes, which they did numerous times throughout the class, the young man would always blush and smile gratefully. Rick would always be the first to look away, he didn't particularly want to be some messed up kid's sanctuary, and yet here he was, letting him hide away in his class for reasons he did not yet understand. Perhaps he was going soft in his old age. 

Sam returned with the Martini, adding a splash of olive brine as he walked, and slid it over the bar with a napkin.   
“Do I not get a show?” Rick lightly mocked.   
The kid laughed and leant on the bar so the magenta lighting illuminated his face more. Rick frowned slightly when he saw deep circles underlining his slightly glassy eyes.   
“I-I didn't think you'd want to draw that much attention to yourself,” he said with a shy smile.   
“Smart kid,” Rick said with a wink then took a gulp of his drink. Damn, that was good. “I almost didn't recognise you, when you were cocktail flaring, y-y-you seem so shy in class.”  
Sam gave a rueful smile. “Well, it's not the same as real life here. I-i-it's just an act, to keep the customers happy,” he shrugged. “Plus, you know, I'm kinda high right now... Probably shouldn't have said that to a teacher...” His eyes widened in mild horror before Rick waved the look away. So the kid took drugs, part of him was impressed, however, a tiny corner of his brain told him he should be concerned, but that was nonsense.  
“Relax, Dawg, it's the weekend! I'm high too!” Rick raised his glass in a toast before downing the rest and catching the olive between his teeth. He kept eye contact with Sam while he slowly pulled the cocktail stick out from the middle, then smiled as he chewed, watching the kids Adam's apple bob as he gulped. _Fuck's sake, what are you doing Sanchez?!_

“Another one, Professor?”  
“Eugh, no no no, we're out of school, call me Rick.” He grunted pushing his glass back towards his personal bartender who whipped out his shaker again.   
“Huh, Rick? I-I-I didn't expect you to be called Rick,” Sam said with a laugh.   
Rick frowned. “Wh-wh-what's wrong with Rick?” He asked, feeling a little offended.  
“Nothing! Nothing! I just expected you to have a more... unusual name. Something outlandish like... like... Zebadiah.”  
Rick snorted through his nose. “Fuck, you really are high, aren't you.”  
He shrugged again and poured out Rick's drink. 

The place was fairly busy and Rick could see the other bar staff shooting Sam pointed glances to try and get him to serve other customers, which sparked the feeling that he needed to keep him talking, he wasn't really in the mood for sharing this intriguing being. _Well that's a weird thought..._ He shook himself a little. 

“I-I-I read your essay,” he piped up before Sam could disappear. The kid cringed and put his elbows back on the bar, leaning in closer so they could hear each other.   
“I'm sorry, I-I know it was shit,” he groaned.  
“Yeah, it was,” Rick felt a grin creeping onto his face. “But it was also the most interesting essay I've read in... Well, the whole time I've taught here,” he said simply.  
The boys glazed over eyes widened in surprise, and that flush started to spill over his cheeks again.   
“I-i-it was?”  
“I mean y-y-you didn't even attempt the math, but... you somehow managed to capture the very essence of intergalactic travel. You are an enigma to me, Sam Smith.” _Whow there! What was in those drinks?_

He was being far too nice, he needed to back off. Now. It was unbearable obvious that the kid had a bit of a crush on him, Rick really shouldn't be encouraging that. He'd let himself get too flattered when the boy had said he loved to hear him talk, now he was in danger of taking this way too far. Not that he had a problem with student/teacher relationships, but the university did and he didn't need the headache. 

As though through divine intervention Rick suddenly felt two arms circle his waist and a head rest on his shoulder.   
“I thought you were buying me a drink, Daddy, I'm getting lonely over there,” the neck leech from earlier simpered.   
Rick watched as Sam's face fell. Yep, defiantly a crush. Before Rick's treacherous mouth could do any kind of damage limitation, however, someone else was at his other shoulder, but this person was much less affectionate. 

A tall, slender man with dark hair and a sour face pushed his way to the bar, and in the process crashed into Rick's shoulder making him slosh half his drink onto his trousers.   
“Hey!” He turned to the floppy-haired prick who was far too old to have a haircut like that.   
“Oh, sorry,” the man sneered, looking down his nose at Rick. His mouth was so rammed with silver spoons that Rick was surprised he could talk at all, but before he could retort the Limey ballsack had turned his attention to Rick's little classroom stowaway.   
“You. Backroom. Now.” He jabbed his finger at Sam then pushed away from the bar and stalked away towards a door labelled 'Private: Staff Only'.   
Sam hung his head, not meeting Rick's eyes as he came around the bar and followed his bossy friend. 

“So where's my drink then?” The man plastered to Rick's back whispered into his ear.   
Rick made an irritated noise in the back of his throat and turned on him, wriggling out of his grasp.   
“Listen, son, i-i-it was fun for a while, now it's over, read the memo and fuck off,” he snapped while trying his best to sponge Martini out of his trousers with a tiny napkin.   
The guy crossed his arms huffily. “So I've just wasted my evening? You're not even going to put out after all that fucking neck sucking you made me do!” He demanded.   
“Pretty much, yeah,” Rick said with a shrug, turning back around and fixing his eyes to the door behind which were Sam and his dickish acquaintance had disappeared. An angry growl sounded behind him as his abandoned hook up stormed out of the bar. Fucking drama queen. 

Whoever the man who had taken Sam was, Rick already hated him. He told himself it was just because he'd spilt his drink, but somehow he didn't believe himself. He kept having to swallow down a blossoming sense of protectiveness that he's never really felt before, or if he had, he didn't remember it. 

He drained what was left of his drink and was just chewing on the olive when the 'Private' door was slammed open by Lord Prick-Features. He stomped across the room like a tantrum-ing child and slumped down in a seat in direct view of the bar and glared at nothing in particular. 

But he was unimportant. Rick returned his attention back to the bar which was now once again occupied by Sam.   
“Ano _OOOOOO_ ther please bartender!” Rick shouted jovially before the kid could get too far away. Sam shot him a tight smile, a far cry from the blushing, youthful grins he'd been getting before.   
“Boss?” Rick questioned when Sam returned with the drink.  
“Boyfriend,” he muttered only just loud enough for Rick to hear. _Boyfriend?_ He raised an eyebrow at the kid who looked away, not in cute embarrassment but in shame. That knitted cock-cosy must have been the source of Sam's bruised arms. The very thought made Rick's blood boil in the most unpleasant way. 

Sam's voice pulled him back from his simmering anger. “Boyfriend?” He asked, gesturing to the space that had been occupied by the neck leech.   
Rick pulled a face. “Ew no, just an adoring fan,” he smirked.   
“Oh,” The boy replied in a far-off voice, that glazed look in his eyes growing thicker with each passing moment. “I have to...” He pointed to the other bar staff who were still shooting him annoyed looks before moving down to serve someone else, stumbling a little as he went which made Rick frown. 

His mind was racing trying to put together all the pieces, but he felt like he may have lost some of them under the sofa in his struggle to make sense of it all through the fog of alcohol. He turned back to look at the Benedict Cumberbatch-looking motherfucker across the bar who Rick discovered had fixed him with an evil, pointed look that gave out one, very clear message. _Back Off_. Rick twitched the corner of his mouth in a barely-there sneer in response and returned to his observation of the little bartender. Something was definitely wrong.

Over the next hour, Sam became more and more erratic in his movements until he could barely hold his cocktail shaker anymore. Shuffling feet, slack-jawed, loose-fingered, the kid was a mess by the time his shift ended. As soon as he took off his apron the brooding stalker-boyfriend was back at his side, gripping his arm and dragging him out the door. 

Rick sat gripping the edges of his bar stool, willing himself with all his might not to get involved, not to follow them out into the night, but alas, only a couple of minutes passed before he was slamming a few bills on the bar and scrambling for the door. Why the hell was he acting like this? What was Sam to him other than a nuisance? But he felt something tugging in his guts, some unseen force that had placed a hook behind his navel and was pulling him forward while whispering in his ear _find him._

The bitter cold and dark of the night was a sharp contrast to the sticky warmth and flashing lights of Hang The DJ. The street was empty save for Rick's fogging breath and a few late night revellers rounding the corner at the end, Sam and his creep had completely vanished. Rick tried to ignore his sinking feeling, _that's a good thing! You don't need to get involved!_ His brain tried to tell him, but he couldn't shake the feeling that the kid could get into some serious trouble hanging around with that guy. He flicked up his collar against the chill then stuffed his hands into his pockets and wrapped his coat further around himself before heading down the street towards the tube station. 

He'd barely reached the end of the street, however, when a strange sound reached his ears. A series of soft grunts overlaid a continuous wet, gagging sound. Rick scoffed, probably some drug dealer getting a sloppy blowjob from a crack whore down the alley coming up on his right. But as he got closer, another sound carried over on the breeze; muffled cries and squeals, the sounds of someone trying very hard _not_ to give a blowjob. Rick approached swiftly but silently until he could peek around the corner of the building that flanked the alley. There, not twenty feet from the entrance, was Cumberbitch, standing over a weakly struggling Sam who was on his knees in a puddle with his head being held against the older man's crotch as he thrust violently into his mouth. 

“Stop crying you stupid slag, you think you can get away with chatting up other guys? Think I wouldn't notice you sneaking off to _work_ so you can fuc- HHHEELLCK!” The nasty tirade was cut short by Rick rushing forward and clothesline-ing the guy across the neck, causing him to fly into the adjacent wall. 

Before his head even hit the bricks Rick was already spinning back around to pick Sam up from where he'd slumped face first onto the cold tarmac.   
“Sam? Sam!? Are you ok? Sam?” Rick pulled him to his feet and propped him up against the wall, gripping his chin so he could manipulate his head into a good light to examine him. The kid looked completely out of it, eyes vacant and neck floppy with a little blood leaking from the corner of his mouth. “What the fuck did he give you?!” Rick exclaimed quietly, almost to himself. 

Looking around to check for unwanted observers, Rick pulled his portal gun from the depths of one of his pockets and shot a gelatinous, lime green circle into the wall then took Sam by the waist and pulled him through it. Thankfully he probably wouldn't even remember any of this. They emerged into Rick's untidy living room and he deposited the boy onto the couch then hopped back through the portal before it could close. 

As he stepped back into the alley, Rick could feel his blood singing with a seething rage he hadn't felt in quite some time. It seemed to come straight from the bowels of hell, the very depths of his subconscious, like some fearsome dragon who had awoken from a thousand year slumber and was lusting for blood. In that moment, he chose not to question it. The rapist cunt was just stirring from his impromptu, wall-induced nap when Rick's shadow fell across his face. He didn't look nearly half as high and mighty when he was in a crumpled pile in the dirty, cock hanging out and bleeding slightly from where Sam's teeth had scrapped against it when he'd been forced backwards. 

“Like getting your di- your little dick played with do you, big guy?” Rick crooned softly as the dazed man on the floor tried to focus on the face of his attacker.   
“Hmm?” Rick prompted.  
“Who-who are you?” He asked in a pathetic, trembling voice.   
“Your new worst nightmare,” the scientist whispered theatrically before raising his foot and slamming it down hard on the guy's exposed member, grinding into it with the heel of his shoe. 

It took him a second to realise what was happening to his groin, but soon enough he released a blood-curdling, high pitched scream. Rick grabbed the collar of his overpriced silk shirt and dragged him into a standing position then let his other fist fly, connecting with the guy's nose and eliciting a satisfying crunch. But he didn't stop there, he continued to pull back his arm and swing at his snivelling prey until his knuckles were covered in both of their blood, and well-bred features we're unrecognisable under bruises and swelling. 

By the time he'd finished, he was breathing hard, throat cut to ribbons by the sharp, cold air. The only sound coming from the other man was a choked gurgle, but it was enough for Rick to know he was still awake. He leant in close so he could speak directly into his ear, lest he missed his warning.   
“If you ever come anywhere near Sam again, if you touch one hair on his head, you Limey _FUCK_ , I will personally skin you alive then make your mother watch while I force you to eat your own flayed hide. And trust me, lover boy, I can keep you awake long enough so you feel. Every. Single. Moment of it. Got it?” There was the suggestion of a nod from the trembling man. “Good.” Rick gave his head a parting slam against the rough bricks, knocking him out cold before letting him collapse onto the floor in a pool of his own blood.

Rick stepped away and wiped the saliva from his mouth with a blood-spattered sleeve, admiring his handy work. Where the fuck had that come from? So much for not getting involved. His chest began to tighten with what could either be laughter or hyperventilation. For the first time in years, he felt truly alive, and that both pleased and sickened him. He swallowed hard against his burning throat then shot a portal into the floor and jumped down into his living room.  
  


* * *

  
  
Rick flicked on the table lamp and strode over to where Sam had curled himself into a ball on the sofa. The kid was white as a sheet and his skin was cold and clammy to the touch when the older man laid the backs of his fingers against his cheek. He was clearly overdosing on something, but Rick really needed to know what before he treated him. He slipped his hands under Sam's armpits and lifted him into a sitting position than began to shake him roughly and slap his face until he stirred, unfocused eyes flickering open to settle on the professor's face.

“Hey, Kid. Y-y-you need to tell me what you took,” Rick said with a gentle firmness.  
Sam blinked unevenly and swallowed dryly. “I- MDMA... and Ru-Rupert gave me ssss-something e-else,” he mumbled weakly.   
Rick stood up straight and scrubbed his hand over his face. Disgusting cunt probably gave him some kind of date rape drug, although which one he couldn't be sure, but it was enough to be getting on with anyway. He bent down and scooped the floppy teen into his arms and staggered with him into the kitchen. The little fucker was heavier than he looked, or maybe Rick was just suffering from his sudden burst of activity. Dumping him in one of the kitchen chairs he set about pulling different bottles and powders out of the cupboards, including a bottle of his favourite cheap vodka. He sipped it while he mixed together a neutralising agent to help to counteract the effects of the drugs, he didn't need to be sober to do this, he'd made it enough for himself while completely out of his mind on all kinds of substances. 

A few minutes later he was standing in front of Sam, prying open his mouth and pouring the greenish liquid down his neck, much to the boy's discomfort who began to splutter and cough.  
“It's ok, you're alright, calm down just-just swallow,” Rick grumbled as soothingly as he could. That seemed to bring Sam back into the real world slightly as he squinted groggily up at his saviour.   
“Pr-Professor?” He managed to croak out between coughs.   
“The one and only,” he said with a nonchalant shrug. He could almost see the piece's falling into place in Sam mind as he tried to recall what had taken place that evening.   
“Y-you saved me?” His confused little voice made Rick's chest constrict.  
“Yeah, course I did. Wasn't going let some cunt abuse my-my worst student was I?” 

All of a sudden Sam slumped forward in his seat and wrapped his skinny arms around Rick's waist, resting his head on the older man's hip. “Thank you,” he whispered into his sweater.   
Rick could only stand there awkwardly and cringe as the kid unknowingly rubbed his face into his boyfriend's drying blood.  
“Oooookay, th-that's enough now, I-I-I get the idea,” he tried his best to lever the little limpet off himself but Sam was not for moving. In fact, he had a very, very different idea about what was going to happen. 

Before Rick even had a chance to react Sam had pulled down his fly and was reaching into his underwear with cold trembling fingers.   
“Hey! What the fuck, Kid?!” Rick gave his shoulders an almighty shove while simultaneously launching himself backwards until the kitchen counter hit the small of his back. 

Sam's shocked expression was short-lived, in seconds big fat tears were slipping down his cheeks as his face crumpled with abject sadness. “I-I-I-I was just saying thank you!”  
“Well, that's not how you go about it!” Rick yelled, then instantly regretted it as the kid let out a soul-wrenching sob. “Oh for fucks- Hey! Stop crying, it's fine!” He walked back over, hand raised in preparation for placing it on his shoulder but when Sam saw it he flinched away as though he was about to be struck. “Jesus fucking Christ...” Rick mumbled to himself, wishing vehemently he'd chosen to tortured that creep then and there in the alley. He'd turned the boy into a shell, someone afraid of his own shadow that confused kindness for a debt that could only be repaid with sex. But no more. This ended tonight.

“Hey,” he crouched down in front of the kitchen chair, bringing himself to eye level with Sam and spoke softly. “I know how you feel, kid, I'm no stranger to the life you're living. Selling yourself for drugs, letting some big powerful guy push you around because it's easier than thinking for yourself, because you think it's all you deserve. But take it from me. You. Deserve. Better. I don't care if you don't believe it, I'm telling you it's true.” He sighed heavily. “You're a good kid, Sam, but if you don't quit this now it's gonna kill you. Hell, you might even have bitten it tonight if I hadn't been there.” He shuddered at the thought

Sam blinked at him and gave a weak, watery smile. “You think I'm a good kid?” he asked as though he didn't really believe him, as though he was expecting a 'but' to undo all the nice words and put him back in his place.   
Rick huffed through his nose and gave him a small smile. “Yeah, I do, and I'll remind you again in the morning when you've forgotten all about this. Come on.” He stood and gently put an arm around the boy so he could pull him to standing and support his weight. 

They struggled up the narrow stairs together, Sam leaning heavily on Rick, until they made it to Rick's spare room. He used it for storage most of the time, but when he cleared off the bed he rejoiced to see a quilt on the bed. After stripping the boy down to his underwear while pointedly not looking at all the multi-coloured bruises that littered his body, he helped him under the covers and tucked him in.   
“Night, kid,” he grumbled as he flicked off the light.   
“Night, Rick,” Sam replied in a small, sleepy voice, and somehow, despite everything that had happened, Rick's world felt brighter than it had in years.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love to hear any thoughts you had about the fic! I'm also on Tumblr if you want to come say hi, discuss R & M, or just anonymously cuss me out! You can find me at [PanthaPrincess](https://panthaprincess.tumblr.com/) :)


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